CHAPTER SIX
A Rune of Fortune
The moment I identify myself as a Warden, the duty sergeant breaks into an enormous, toothless smile. He wants to shake my hand, and bows when he does so. Then he straightens and begins to thank me profusely for my service. What he imagines that to be, I don't know. He doesn't even ask to see proof of my status – which I have rather shamefully overstated, correctly hoping it will command his assistance. He doesn't ask why I'm here. He just wants to help.
Hearing the sergeant's effusive greetings, other soldiers at the guard gather. Up on the ruined wall, some of the archers turn to watch, too. My assumption is that our audience will look on with amusement – I expect knowing whispers, stifled laughs, maybe even a few eye rolls for their overenthusiastic sergeant. Instead, I find the men and women are nodding along with every word he says. Looking around, I see dirty faces staring back at me, exhaustion and fear mirrored in their eyes. But there's hope, too, and relief, and something uncomfortably close to adulation.
They think we're going to save them, I realize, and I can tell Daveth recognizes it too – he's shifting from one foot to the other, head down, edging away slowly.
"Sergeant, you are too kind," say, falling back on diplomacy. "We only do our duty, as you good men and women do yours."
For me, a noble, this is a mere pleasantry, a polite dismissal if it is anything. But the soldiers nod as though I have quoted Holy Scripture.
Only a few days ago, Duncan told us that the Grey Wardens are not always welcomed throughout Ferelden, nor looked upon kindly by all its citizens. He would know best, I suppose. Here, however, among these soldiers, it would seem we are heroes.
Frankly, I'd prefer animosity.
"I'm here to learn about a scouting party that left in the last few days," I tell the sergeant. "I've heard you're the man to speak to about comings and goings from the camp?"
The sergeant's smile grows wider, and he bobs his head up and down. He beckons me toward a crude shelter, talking as he goes. It's nothing more than a roof wedged between the palisade wall and the crumbling tower, leaving two sides open to the elements – enough to keep out the rain, but not the cold.
And it is cold, I realize – though it cannot be much past two in the afternoon, the air is already growing chill. Maybe that's why the soldiers are all drifting back toward the fire. Daveth is there already, having slipped away without my noticing. He's warming his hands, making small talk.
Inside the shelter, the sergeant shows me the log book. It is supposed to list all comings and goings, he says, but then adds that it may not be exact. Not all of the shifts keep good records. He thinks this is because some of the other sergeants don't know how to read or write.
"Lucky you came by just now," he says, proudly. "I know my letters just fine. Now…right here, it is." One thick finger taps a notation in the log. "Party from Highever left this morning. No others out since. No one out at all, actually. I can vouch for that, too, ser. Been here since sun up."
"Thank you, sergeant. Does it show who went out before the Highever patrol?"
"Aye, it does, but I could tell you just as easy. There's quite a few comings and goings through the gate, but none to the Wilds. Just patrols around the palisade, or in the woods close by. Them Highever boys, they're the first to go down there – down to the Wilds, I mean – since we lost a whole party out there, maybe three or four days back? Them that we lost, they were to be gone just for one night, but they've not been seen since. The lads have been taking bets on who got them first, the darkspawn or the witches."
"The witches?"
"Aye. Witches of the Wilds. You've not heard of them?"
"You mean Flemeth? I've listened to a few tales about her."
"Oh, aye, her for certain, and others, too, though I don't know their names. The hunters His Majesty hired up – locals all of them – they're all beside themselves, saying we're too close to the forest. Spend any time around them, you'll get an earful. Get the feeling they blame the witches for everything. But you said you heard of Flemeth?"
I nod.
Flemeth is the witch that bards have intertwined with my family's history, allegedly the wife and killer of Bann Connobar Elstan. This, I do not share.
"Right, well, then, you're from up north, aren't you my lord?"
I nod again.
"Well, me too, me too. So, these local legends, they're a bit different than what you've heard, if you've heard the same tales as I."
"Hmm," I say, paying only half attention.
Looking over the sergeant's shoulder, I spot Daveth. He's moved away from the fire, and is chatting up a brunette. She wears leather armor over a checkered kilt and a red smock, and carries a broadsword strapped to her back. She's pretty, but she also looks like she could kill you with one hand.
Daveth, however, appears not the least bit intimidated. He says something that makes her laugh, though I can't tell if she's laughing at the joke or laughing athim.
In some strange way, I almost admire the single-mindedness with which Daveth pursues female companionship. Or, more to the point, I admire his ability to shake off whatever troubles him. Though the sight of the dead genlock rocked him to the core, he already seems to have forgotten. Or maybe he's pushed it away. Maybe that's the same thing?
"So," the sergeant is saying, "Flemeth unites all them Chasind barbarians, and they invade the Hinterlands, even get as far as the Bannorn. That part's in our histories, I think, and the locals, they also say so. She finally gets herself defeated by none other than Cormac the Great, but not before she's conquered half of Ferelden. He's my namesake, ser, Cormac is. Proud to have the name."
"Indeed," I say. What else is there to say?
"Well, the locals, they say Cormac took her head clean off, mounted it on a pike, and burnt her body. But in the morning – the morning after the battle, I mean – they say the head and body, what was left of it at least, they're gone. She never was seen since, but they say her daughters survived, and they're the Witches of the Wild now, and they hate us just as much as Flemeth ever did."
"And do you believe the locals?" I ask, though I'm only half interested.
Sergeant Cormac chuckles. "Only when it's dark and the wind is bad. No, you ask me, it's just superstition – someone to blame when a child goes missing or the milk goes sour. My wager – not that I put in any bet myself, but if I was to – my wager is those scouts met a bad end with some darkspawn. It was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn't it? War's war, after all."
"War's war," I repeat, as though I know what this means. As though it means anything. "If you can tell me, sergeant, how do the patrols find their way down to the Wilds? The cliffs we saw on the way into camp were quite steep."
The question has been nagging at me since we found the palisade. The valley and the bridge are behind us, across the encampment. Although I've not seen it yet, I assume there must be some means of travel from the outcroppings down into the valley. After all, the bulk of the army is camped below.
"Right, well, it's not just a cliff, not all along. Haven't been out there to see for myself, but the locals tell me it's more of a ridge in places, just a steep hill in a few others. There's a path outside this gate, leads to a stretch of the cliff that fell apart in some landslide. It's steep – a bitch to climb up or down, I've heard – but it can be done. Those darkspawn buggers, they've tried climbing up that way a few times now. There was quite a bit of fighting there just last week, actually, but we had the hill on our side, and I'm told none of them so much as reached the top. We've skirmishers posted there day and night, so we'll have warning if they give it another go."
If the cliff is not as impassable as it looks, perhaps I have a better understanding of why we encountered the scouts so early this morning – and of why parties are being set out.
"Thank you again for your help, sergeant."
"Oh, no, no! It's my pleasure. Anything for the Wardens," he says, beaming. "We'll all look to you when battle is joined."
I incline my head politely and step away. I'm not thrilled to imagine anyone looking to me as an example, especially in battle. I survived Highever by luck alone, and am not even truly a Warden, no matter what I may have implied to the good sergeant.
The best thing for everyone would be to perch me on a ledge somewhere with a quiver full of arrows and an instruction to kill as many darkspawn as I can. Thereafter, I could be ignored until a real Warden, or perhaps an overzealous king, fells the Archdemon. That, or until we are all overrun. Either way, I look to play no decisive role in the battle to come, and none should look to me for such a service, either.
Daveth is still flirting with the brunette as I approach. It's easy to see why he's enamored. Crystal blue eyes twinkle from underneath strands of short short-cropped hair that fall across her forehead, and her full lips are curled into a mischievous smirk.
"So," Daveth is telling her, "what I mean is, you don't have any last wishes before we head into battle?"
There's a twinkle in his eyes, and a boyish sincerity in his lopsided grin. He might even be described as charming.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the woman replies, feigning innocence as she bats her lashes. She's playing along, I think, egging him on.
She is about Daveth's age, I think. A few years my senior. Now that I'm beside Daveth, I notice another female soldier standing nearby, watching with a frown.
"Well, my dear Marian," Daveth continues earnestly, "life is fleeing, you know. I don't mean to alarm you, but that pretty face of yours could be decorating a darkspawn spear before the week's out."
"Not likely, Warden." Marian smirks. "I know my way around a... blade."
She actually winks as she says this, and Daveth's jaw goes a bit slack.
All right, really? Are blade-related puns a common form of innuendo? Despite growing up with Aeron, I don't think I've ever heard this particular euphemism until Daveth himself used it last night, to mock Jory – and now, less than a day later, the same wordplay's being turned on him.
Before Daveth can respond, a new voice interrupts: "You're wasting your time, friend."
We both turn. A man, who by his features can only be Marian's brother, is walking up from the camp.
Like Marian, he has dark hair, though his is cut much shorter, and he wears a full beard. Also like Marian, he is clad in traditional Ferelden armor, kilt and all. His is of better quality, however, and better cared for: the leather has been oiled regularly, and I can see where he's buffed out cuts and divots, disguising signs of past battles. There are other signs, however, that cannot be hidden: pale lines cross his face and neck, and a chunk is missing one nose.
The man's most striking feature, however, is a swath of red across the bridge of his nose, like paint swiped from cheekbone to cheekbone. As he draws nearer, I think it is a tattoo, though I've never seen one like it.
"Come now, ser knight," Daveth says. "Time's never a-wasted, speaking with a lovely lady."
"I'm no knight," says the man-who-is-not-a-knight. "My name's Garret Hawke, a simple and altogether-untitled adventurer, loyally pledged to this glorious army. And that's my sister, I believe, that you're trying to woo."
"Well, then, Garrett, no disrespect intended, but isn't your sister old enough she can talk to whoever she pleases?"
Garrett Hawke throws his head back and laughs. Marian grins as well, and so does the other female soldier, still standing at a distance.
"Oh, you mistake me, friend," Garret says. "My sister can protect her own honor well enough."
"Such as it is," Marian interjects wryly.
"I'm only trying to save you some disappointment," Garret continues.
"Disappointment?"
"You're barking up the wrong tree, friend."
Daveth looks from Garret to Marian, then back, and then back again.
At last, Marian inclines her head toward the nearby soldier meaningfully, and comprehension dawns on Daveth's face. For a moment, he's speechless.
I'm learning, however, that for Daveth such a condition rarely persists.
"Well, that's a disappointment, isn't it?" he says, once he's recovered his wits. "I was just thinking to myself, a comely lass like you must have bad eyesight to give me any time of day at all. But I got nothing you want, do I? Just toying with me, were you? Well, I can't be angry. You're too pretty, you are. Besides, don't mind saying, just the thought of you two together should be enough to keep me warm at night, if it's no difference to you two?"
"If thinking of us stokes your fires, then I'm glad we can be of service, Warden," Marian says, with a throaty chuckle that probably makes Daveth weak at his knees.
Honing in on probably the last part of that exchange I'd have expected, Garret turns to me and asks, "You're Wardens?"
"Uh, yes. Well, soon to be." There's no point dancing around the truth now that I have what I need from the sergeant, and besides, I get the feeling that very few lies slip past this man. "We're among the newest recruits. My name's Liam."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he says, sincerely. "Our father had some dealing with your Order, though I never learned the details. If you've got the time once the battle's over, I'd buy you a drink. There's much I'd like to learn about the Wardens – and even if there isn't, beer's good."
I can't help returning his smile; he reminds me of an older Aeron. "I won't turn down a drink, but your coin might be better spent on another. I doubt I'd be able to answer any question worth asking."
"Then bring me whoever you think has the answers, and I'll buy drinks all around!" Garret offers me a hand. We shake wish each other good luck. Then he turns away, walking back toward the little shack, calling out to Sergeant Cormac about news from some captain.
The other soldier, Marian's lover, sidles up. She's watching Daveth closely as he tries one last pitch.
"Just think about it, ladies. A man in the mix could add a bit of spice, even just for one night. Never a bad idea to try new things..."
Marian chuckles again, rolling her eyes. Her lover shoots Daveth a sour look.
"Come on, Hawke," she says, taking Marian's hand and pulling her away.
"Shall I take those adorable glares as a no?" Daveth calls after them.
Marian looks back over her shoulder as she's led back toward the fire. "I'm taken, as you can see, and milady here isn't the sharing type." She winks again. "Better luck next time!"
Next to me, Daveth lets out a long sigh. "Blimey," he mutters. "So close."
…
Rather than backtracking through the infirmary, I lead us further along the palisade before cutting down toward the valley. The camp is larger than I'd imagined, and I still haven't seen it all. This may be my only chance to get a first-hand understanding of our position, and there's no real hurry, so I see no reason to waste this opportunity.
Whether he's thinking of his near miss with Marian Hawke or brooding about our enemy, I don't know, but Daveth remains silent. I'm a bit irritated to realize I miss his prattling. Any conversation is better than the silence, but I've no idea where to start.
Soon enough, we find the valley's edge. Far below, rows of tents stretch out like checkered patterns on a quilt. Smoke rises from hundreds upon hundreds of fires, and columns of men travel down wide avenues, marching chants audible as faint whispers on the wind.
We turn right here, following the valley's path back toward the bridge and the king's tents. Unless I've gotten myself completely turned around, I guess we've at least ten minutes left to walk. Too long to be alone with my thoughts.
Finally, awkwardly, I screw up the courage to extend an offer of conversation. "Are you – do you want to come with me to see the Circle?" I ask.
It's is a stupid question, with an obvious answer. Daveth has been following me for the better part of ten minutes since leaving the guard post, and he's made no move to part – not when we passed a group of women with daring necklines and come-hither eyes, nor when a burly soldier invites us to share in a side of roasted elk he's carving above an open fire. If fair skin and roasted food haven't distracted him, it's a safe bet he's coming along. Yet, still, I ask.
Daveth stares at me blankly for a moment, as though he didn't quite hear. Then he nods. "Sure. Got nothing else going on, do I? Besides, I don't reckon I ever saw a mage up close before"
"You've never seen a mage?"
"Well, I seen them plenty of times at a distance. Seen one of them Tevinter ones, too, once. A magistrate, they're called?
"A Magister, I think it is."
"Oh, right. Right. A Magister." Daveth seems as grateful as I am for the distraction. "He was in the Denerim markets. Fancy-looking fellow, wore his robes tied up with a belt around his waist, and had quite a hood over his head, all fancy-like. Would've liked to get my hands on his purse, but he had about twenty guards with him."
"You're lucky you didn't try anything. They've a reputation for being quite ruthless, from what I've read."
"Right, I thought so too. They're all blood mages, aren't they?"
Brother Aldous told me this is only a rumor, and is likely only true of some of the Magisters, but I don't feel like quibbling.
"All the better you didn't try to pick his pocket, then," I say. "Who knows what he'd have done if he caught you."
"Right? Drained me dry, like as not. Or turned me into some demon or other."
Again, though I'm not sure this is remotely plausible, I just nod.
As we stroll, we continue in this vein, the conversation flowing from one topic to another, often based on our surroundings in the camp. Periodically, something Daveth says will be outlandish enough that I have to bite my tongue, stifling my natural impulse to correct any misinformation. Mother used to chide me for being a know-it-all; Aeron often made similar observations, though he was less polite.
We follow the valley's edge back toward the bridge, which remains out of sight, blocked by stands of trees and the valley's natural curve. I can tell by changes in the camp that we must be drawing close, though. The rows of small canvas tents have given way to workshops and merchants stands, and I can see colored banners fluttering just beyond a nearby rise.
The valley twists, and we follow. Soon, I can see the high stone arches that connect the eastern and western sides of the camp, still a half a mile off. Much closer, I finally discover a means of page from the valley to the outcropping, and back again: a stone ramp, wide and shallow, built against the face of the cliff.
There are soldiers posted at the top, a contingent similar in number and armament to Sergeant Cormac's unit at the gate. These troops, however, are slouched against old columns, or sagging as they lean on their spears for support. A few are sitting, legs sprawled out, backs against stumps. It's all quite slovenly, in fact, but none of them seem to be enjoying their laziness, either.
They regard Daveth and I warily, staring at us with hollow eyes as we pass them by. As guards go, these are not the least bit impressive.
After we pass, I glance over my shoulder, hoping for a better look at the long ramp down. I'm disappointed by the view, though I can make out what I think are grooves cut along either side, likely for channeling rain.
If there's time later, I'd like to go back, to study it more closely. That ramp must be wide enough for two wagons abreast, and its pitch is so gentle that I think it must stretch for at least a mile before reaching the valley floor. I am not an engineer, nor a historian, but the magnitude of what the Tevinter Imperium accomplished in this fortress almost defies comprehension.
The work Mother commissioned on the cliff-side path leading up to the servant's exit took years to complete, and that project was merely the addition of a few steps and sturdier railings. This ramp – its construction alone must have taken a legion of slaves, and decades of sweat and blood, and more timber than could be found in a forest of trees.
Whether the rumors Daveth and I have traded about the Tevinter Magisters are true or not, I don't know. All I know is that I am standing in the footprints of an Empire whose accomplishments have lingered on for millennia. Can Ferelden make such a claim? My people were no more than tribes, only beginning to master the arts of farming, when these stones were raised.
At first, it's just humbling.
But then, a dozen paces later, it's chilling, too, because I remember another of Brother Aldous' lessons about Tevinter. Not about their politics, nor about their Magisters.
About their empire's fall.
The Tevinter Imperium, I remember, was brought to its knees by the First Blight.
The same power at which I have just been marveling – the same Magisters that Daveth and I have been taught to fear – all was undone by the very enemy that now awaits us in the Wilds.
As thoughts go, this isn't an encouraging one.
…
The Circle encampment is easy to spot, once we've finally walked far enough. It is, as the Sister told me, at the camp's southernmost edge, more than a five-minute walk from the nearest tents and merchants. Only the stockade, with its cages and chains and sallow prisoners, is within sight.
I wonder if this quarantine is to accommodate the mages' privacy, or to assuage the fears of commoners. Or perhaps the templars made the choice; it is their job, after all, to guard men from mages, and mages from men.
Whatever the reason, there is a distinct sense of transition as we approach. We have left the army behind entirely, and entered a different place altogether. It is quiet here, almost eerily so, and still, as though frozen in time. Nothing moves beside the gentlest of breezes.
The tents that make up the encampment are finer than any I've seen, except perhaps for the King's. Their fabric shimmers, and their colors are undimmed by the pallor that hangs over the rest of Ostagar. There are more than a dozen, each pitched tightly against the next, arrayed in a half-circle at the cliff's edge. Half are royal purple, bordered at each edge with brilliant white; half are crimson, emblazoned on each side with a flaming, golden sword, the symbol of the Templar Order.
Though I cannot see past the tents, shimmering smoke rises from their midst, suggesting an open space at their center, and a bonfire bigger than any we've seen in the rest of the camp.
Pairs of armored Templar knights walk slowly around the encampment's perimeter; more stand guard outside a narrow gap between the tents. They watch us as we approach, though most wear full-faced helmets with dark slits over the eyes, making it impossible to gauge their expression. Their shields and breastplates bear the same sigil as the crimson tents, and they wear sashes of the same color beneath their sword belts.
As we draw nearer, the stillness becomes stifling. There's a crackling humidity in the air, a tension like the pause between breathes, pregnant with power. The energy intensifies with every step, prickling my nose and tightening my skin.
"You feel that?" I mutter.
"Blimey…"
By the time we reach the Templar guards at the passage between tents, my hair is standing on end.
"Ho there, stranger." One of the templars has stepped forward, holding up a gauntleted hand. "State your business."
"We're with the Grey Wardens," I say. I'm getting pretty good at this. "My name is Liam, and this is my companion, Daveth. We –"
"Ah, you must be with Alistair. My name is Knight-Lieutenant Mason. I knew Alistair when he was a recruit with our Order, before yours stole him away. I trust he's proved of more use to you and he was to us?"
The way he says it, he seems to be in good humor, but with the helmet obscuring his face, I really have no idea.
I glance at Daveth uncertainly. He licks his lips, and says, "Ah, well, I wouldn't know about that milord. He's been with the Wardens more time than we, milord."
A chuckle echoes out from Ser Mason's helm. "Then you two must be as junior as they come. But you are here for Alistair, I assume?"
Daveth nods. Hesitantly, I follow his lead.
"Very well then. It's this way." Ser Mason beckons we follow as he walks through the gap between tents. "Quiet as we go, if you please. The mages are not to be interrupted. Their spirits are in the Fade."
As we trail behind the Knight Lieutenant, I catch Daveth's eye and make a face – trying to ask if he has any idea what's going on, or why Alistair would be here. He shrugs, apparently as confused as I am.
Before I can begin to puzzle it out, we find ourselves in a wide yard bounded by the tents. The cliff is very near, and over its edge we are afforded a rather impressive view of the endless, misty forest stretching away below. An enormous bonfire blazes within a brazier that so large that I think it could hold ten of the ones we saw in the army camp.
Around the fire, a score of men and women stand with their eyes closed, swaying in place. Though they do not move exactly in tandem with one another, there's a symmetry to their movement. It's as if they're listening to music I can't hear, or floating in a current I can't feel or see.
Many of the mages look Ferelden – men and women with ruddy complexions and brown or red hair – but I also see a woman whose face is the color of rich chocolate, and there are at least three elves among the group. Some are old enough to be my grandparents, and others look a few years younger than me. All, however, wear long, simple robes, and every mage carries a staff.
Each staff is as unique as its owner: some are made of wood, others of various metals; a few are nearly works of art, inscribed with intricate patterns along their entire length, while others are little more than gnarled branches; many are affixed with grips not unlike those on a sword or a bow; a few have small blades affixed at the base, for use in combat, I assume.
The energy in the air seems to come from the tips of the staffs. Some are capped with gems, while others end in a gnarl of roots, or a twist of patterned metal, or a talisman of twigs lashed to the staff itself. In every case, however, they air shimmers around the end of the staffs, like heat baking off stones at the height of summer.
When I look directly at these whorls, these distortions in the fabric of reality, the static grows to a roar. I feel lightheaded, and force myself to look away.
"What – what're they doing?" Daveth asks in a stage whisper.
"As I said, their spirits are in the Fade," Ser Mason says, his voice terse now. "They are meditating." The way he says the word, I get the feeling he doesn't trust it.
Now that I've torn my eyes away from the mages, I see they are outnumbered. At least twice as many Templars line the yard's perimeter. The knights watch their wards like hawks. Many rest their hands on their swords; some have un-slung their shields.
"We cannot be too careful," Ser Mason says, nodding at this show of force. "Not if this truly is a Blight."
I have to bite to my tongue to keep from asking what he means. If I'm a Warden, I should know all about the Blight. Can't be asking stupid questions, no matter how curious I am.
We've passed halfway around the yard now. We're approaching one of the purple tents.
"Alistair is in here," Ser Mason says, and moves to open the tent's flap.
"Um, actually…" I stammer.
He pauses. I imagine, if I could see his eyes, he'd be looking at me skeptically.
"Actually," I repeat, trying to sound more confident. "We've no need to interrupt his business just yet. We're here for…a different matter."
"Oh? I apologize. I had assumed -"
"No, it's my fault, I should have spoken up sooner." I take a breath. Here we go. Trying not to sound too hesitant, I ask: "Have you heard anything of what happened at Highever?"
Ser Mason turns to face me more directly. His helmet shakes from left to right.
"Highever – well, there was an attack, of some sort." My mouth is dry. I've rehearsed these lies and half-truths since we arrived. "We were there seeking recruits and – and resting our horses. The city fell, and we had no choice but to flee. Though I – we do not know what happened – we saw mages among the fighting. At least three mages."
A fool could see through my story, I think. Gods be damned, I wish I could see his eyes.
He says nothing.
"We – we were not certain for whom they fought." My words come in a rush now. "We did not know if they were apostates or – or if they were members of the Circle, caught as we were in the battle. I had hoped someone among your order or – or one of the mages – might know?"
The templar stares at me for another wordless moment.
Then he nods.
"Come with me."
We turn back the way we've come, circling the yard again.
"I had not heard of any fighting at Highever," says Ser Mason, walking beside me and speaking softly. "We've been here at least a fortnight, however, and we've had precious little news since. Before we left, there'd been no authorized excursions for any of our mages since news of the darkspawn reached us. Still, Aenid may know better. If any travel permits were issued, he will know, and he may have seen news I've missed."
I'm sure the Knight-Lieutenant has seen through my lies – certain he is leading us out of the camp under a pretense, hoping to avoid a disturbance before he sends us packing – or claps us in irons.
Instead, we continue around, to the other side of the yard. He leads us to a wide, oak table just outside another of the purple tents. The table is covered in books, quills, and stacks of papers weighted down by smooth stones.
A man stands at the table, his back to us, his head down. His robes are unmistakably those of a Chantry brother, though the colors are subdued – all dusty brown except for a purple sash, lacking the golds and crimsons I associate with clergy of every rank. The man is studying the contents of a thick ledger, running a slender finger down lines of script.
"Aenid," Ser Mason says. "Good afternoon."
Aenid taps a spot on his ledger, straightens, and then, slowly and deliberately, then turns to face us.
"Good afternoon, Ser Mason."
Aenid's voice, like his movements, is stilted, almost entirely without inflection.
"These men are Wardens. They require information regarding mages that they encountered in Highever, I believe during a battle of some sort."
"Ah, I see." Aenid inclines his head respectfully to Daveth and I. "It is my honor to assist you, Wardens."
When he finally looks at me, I find Aenid has kind eyes, though they are unfocused. It's like he's staring past me, or through me. He wears a full beard, and though it's cut close, it seems to obscure his age. He could be thirty or fifty, and neither would surprise me.
He would be quite plain, in fact, if it were not for the Chantry sunburst emblazoned on his forehead.
The sunburst is bright orange at the cure, and deep red about the edges. Just like it appears in the stained glass of a chapel, or on the breast of a brother's tunic. At first, I think this be a tattoo – but I see there is texture beneath the rays, the skin raised unevenly. With a shock, I realize the image has been branded onto Aenid's skin.
"You appear confused, young ser. Have you never met one of the Tranquil?"
With a start, I realize I've been staring, and quickly look away. If Aenid is offended, however, he hides it well.
"I – no, I have not."
"Ah. Well, I am a Tranquil," Aenid says placidly, as though this explains it all.
The sister, I think, at the field hospital – she said something about the Tranquil – she described them as "those silent fellows," if I remember right. But Aenid is hardly mute.
Something on the table flashes, catching my eye. The stones, which I had taken for mere paperweights, are inscribed with symbols – not so remarkable, perhaps, except that these symbols glow with bright colors that pulse slowly, as though they are windows into a glowing coal at the heart of each stone.
I look back up at Aenid.
"Are you a mage?" I ask.
"Yes and no. I am of the Circle of Magi, but I am no longer a mage."
"You…you were a mage?"
"Indeed."
"But…you're not anymore?" Daveth asks, as confused as I am.
"Perhaps I have asked the wrong question," Aenid replies. "I asked if you had never met one of the Tranquil. Perhaps I should have asked if you know of the Tranquil?"
I shake my head. Beside me, Daveth does the same.
"Then allow me to ask another question: Do you know why those with magical talent are feared?"
"That's easy enough," Daveth says. "Magic's power, isn't it? Pure as power gets. And power's dangerous, no matter who's got hands on it."
"Indeed. Yet magic is dangerous even beyond its power. The Chant teaches that magic leads to Sin. Even if we were not blessed with Scripture, however, a logical basis would still remain for fear of magic. Demons and other spirits are attracted to the emotions of mortals, and also to those of us who possess magical talent. We can be possessed much more easily than those who do not possess the talent, particularly when our emotions burn with intensity. That is our curse. That is why I was made Tranquil. When we are stripped of emotion and magical talent, we are no longer dangerous. I am no longer dangerous."
For a moment, it's quiet, as Daveth and I digest this information. Nearby, Knight-Lieutenant Mason shifts his weight, watching silently.
"Wait," Daveth says at last. He sounds horrified. "You're saying they… what'd they do to you?"
"The Templars possess the authority to enact the Rite of Tranquility. It is bequeathed to them by the Chantry. They brand the forehead, and still the talent and the emotion of the mind. The process is irreversible, and brings an end to the danger."
"And you…you don't feel anything?" Daveth presses.
If someone who has supposedly been stripped of emotion can be made to feel uncomfortable, then I'm sure Daveth is pushing Aenid that way. I hiss Daveth's name, hoping he'll catch a hint and drop this persistent questioning. If he hears, however, he ignores me.
"I feel physical sensations," Aenid explains, also ignoring me. "I have retained my memories, and my intellectual abilities. However, beyond these, it is as you say: I feel nothing."
"Fuck me," Daveth whispers. He's gone pale again, like when he saw the genlock's corpse. "That's fucking awful. I'm…I'm sorry, mate."
"There is no need to apologize. I feel no regret. I am content to serve in my role."
"You – you do remember, though?"
"Many puzzled by this," Aenid says. "For instance, you appear quite troubled. You should not be. In answer to your query: Yes, I do remember that I felt. However, I do not remember what this means. As the name suggests, my existence is quite tranquil. I am alive. I am productive. I pose no danger to anyone. I am at peace. Surely this is not so terrible a circumstance? Yet, I have learned it is difficult to explain.
"You don't need to explain yourself," I assure him.
Daveth just stands there, blinking.
"Perhaps," Ser Mason says dryly, "you might wish to get to the matter at hand?"
"Of course," Aenid says. "What information do you require?"
I nod gratefully. "During our journey, we passed through Highever. While there, we found ourselves in the midst of an assault on the town, and witnessed several mages involved in the battle."
For some reason, the lies and half truths come more easily speaking to Aenid than they did with Ser Mason, or Sergeant Cormac before him. I've never had cause to be anything but honest, not since I was a grubby-faced child trying to sneak cakes from the kitchens. It's not a skill I ever imagined honing. But it seems I'm not as bad at it as I'd expected. Or hoped.
I'm not sure whether to be pleased or ashamed.
Then again, I'm not sure whether this is easy because I'm catching a knack for dishonesty – or because these lies about Highever's fall are easier than the truth.
Realizing I've paused for too long, I rush through the rest of my explanation. We want to know whether the mages might have belonged to the circle, and if not we want to alert the Templars about apostates. I'm still stammering when Aenid politely interrupts.
So much for developing a knack.
"Pardon me," he says. "Perhaps you could tell me when this occurred?"
"About – about fourteen days ago. Two weeks, I mean."
"Ah," says Aenid. He turns to the table and moves one of the glowing stones. The orange light flares at his touch, then dulls again when placed on a different stack of papers.
Next to me, Daveth clears his throat. When I turn, he catches my eye and shakes his head meaningfully. He starts to back away.
Though I've no idea why this Tranquil has affected him so deeply, I nod assent. Daveth turns on his heel and walks back the way we came, brushing past Ser Mason without a word.
I wonder if this is somehow related to the darkspawn corpse. Maybe it's just too much weirdness, too soon. If so, I can certainly understand.
Aenid straightens and turns back to me. "I find no record of any outstanding travel permits granted to any mage from Kinloch Hold during the time you have described. The only travelers recorded this year are certain senior enchanters gifted in the healing arts. These enchanters often travel with the Chantry's blessing, to minister to all in need. All were recalled upon notice of darkspawn activity. Since their return, no other mages have departed Kinloch Hold, aside from our current expedition."
It takes me a moment to remember that Kinloch Hold is the proper title for the Circle of Magi here in Ferelden. Though I've never seen it, I'm familiar with its reputation: the hold is actually a tower, built on a small island in the middle of Lake Calenhad, accessible only by boat.
"Is there…do mages ever travel without it being recorded?"
"If so, I would not know." He pauses for a moment, then, with no inflection whatsoever, adds: "Nor would I be permitted to tell you, if I did. I hope you will understand."
I can't help chuckling at this deadpan admission. "Of course. Would the same be true of escapes?"
"That is correct."
I sigh and look at Ser Mason. His helmet stares back, implacable.
There's got to be another angle. Even if I can't find answers here, there must be some avenue I can pursue – some clue about where to go next.
"What about – do you know if anyone tracks groups of apostates?"
"I do. The Templars track all reports of suspicious magical activity."
"Do you – can you access those records?"
"No," says Ser Mason. "That is Templar business alone."
"I apologize," Aenid says placidly, "if I have failed to be helpful to you."
It's hard to be cross in the face of such serene sincerity. I'm just trying to form a courteous smile, just about to tell him that's not what I meant.
But before I do, a woman bursts from the tent behind Aenid. She's still fiddling with a clasp at the neck of her robes, and her gray hair is unkempt, as though she's just awoken. She's scowling, although the expression looks unnatural on her face, and her narrowed eyes settle on me almost immediately.
"Can I help you, young man? Her tone suggests help is not, in fact, what she intends to offer.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I should think it's a simple enough question," she says sharply. She glares briefly at Ser Mason, then turns aside to the address the Tranquil very kindly. "Good afternoon, Aenid."
"Good afternoon, Wynne," he replies.
This Wynne wears tan robes, gathered at her waist by a brown belt, and bearing the symbol of the Circle of Magi in silver stitching across the breast. On her belt, she carries dozens of small, leather pouches, each one barely large enough to hold a handful of coins, and a wooden staff hangs across her back. Though I would guess she must be in her late fifties, her face is almost completely smooth.
She's staring at me again, and I'm reminded of nothing so much as a stern grandmother.
"Well?" she demands, not breaking the stare as she gathers her hair into a tight bun at the back of her head in a series of quick, practiced movements.
"My name is Liam," I venture.
"Yes, I heard, and you're with the Wardens. What I don't understand is why you feel the need to pester Aenid, when he's already answered your questions."
"I – that was not my intent."
I'm rather confused, and glance at Ser Mason. The way he's standing, I can tell he's watching closely, and I think he's more than a little amused. He offers me no help, however.
"No? Then surely you have business to attend to elsewhere. I imagine the Wardens have all sorts of pressing business, even for their very young members."
"If you heard all that," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "then surely you also heard why I'm here."
"Yes. Mages at Highever. And I'm sure we, and our Templar brethren, appreciate this information. Thank you for relaying it to us. Now, unless there was something else you needed to bother Aenid with?"
"I am trying to understand what happened, my lady," I say, biting my tongue to hold back the venom. "Perhaps you have some advice, as to who else I might bother?"
"Advice? Never. You young ones know far too much of the world already, I wouldn't want to presume. Now be on your way."
"I'm just…" I sigh.
What can I say, that doesn't reveal too much? Or is there any point in secrecy at all?
Deciding that I'll learn more by watching her reactions than I will by trying to conceal the truth, I nod.
"I'm from Highever," I admit, the first part of a half-truth. "I haven't been back since joining the Wardens, except to see it burning. I'm just looking for answers."
Immediately, her face softens. "Ah. Then I apologize. I thought you were making sport of my friend, Aenid. More than a few young men have decided to make Tranquil mages the butt of their jokes, and too few are willing to stand up for our Tranquil brethren." Here, she shoots a sidelong glance at Ser Mason. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Wynne. I am a Senior Enchanter at Kinloch Hold, and I command the contingent of Healers summoned by the king."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."
"Just Wynne, please. Liam, isn't it? You rode into camp earlier with Duncan, I believe. One of his new recruits. He is not a man easily impressed. You should be proud."
Of all the things I feel, pride is probably furthest from my heart lately. I nod, however, trying not to let my expression give anything away.
"Did you lose friends in Highever?"
I nod, hoping my face does not betray me.
"And your family?"
This time I don't even try. I don't need to. Her sympathy is a tool I can use. So, quite honestly, and with genuine sorrow, I say, "Dead."
There's a twinge of guilt as I watch the last traces of guardedness fall away from her face.
"Oh, you poor child. I'm sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. But I can assure you, Aenid's records are correct. No travel permits have been granted for months." She smiles, an expression that looks far more natural on her face than the earlier scowl. "I should know, as all of mine have been denied."
I'm not sure why, but I ask, "Do you travel often?"
Wynne nods. "I am a healer, and quite a talented one. I serve mostly in the Bannorn, and sometimes in the northwest, as far as West Hill or Crestwood, but I have dear friends who travel to Highever often. None of them have left the tower in months. Did I hear you ask Aenid about escapes?"
"Yes."
"I would not know the answer," repeats Aenid, who has been watching our conversation quietly.
"No indeed," Wynne says, regarding him affectionately for a moment. "And I assume you will offer no insight to us, Ser Mason?"
"No indeed," replies the Templar. "Even for a Warden from Highever…" He pauses significantly, letting me know that he noticed my earlier omission. "Even then, it is as I said: this is Templar business alone."
"Well then." Wynne sighs. "We shall have to piece it together as best we can ourselves. Surely Ser Mason will not object? Good. So, tell me, how many mages did you see at Highever?"
"At least…" I try to recall the report from the guards at the gate, who said Howe's men had more mages with them. They saw two mages among the forces assaulting the defenses, and there was the one we killed in the great hall. "At least three," I say. "But there could have been more."
Wynne nods. "Then I think I have your answer. There has been only one successful escape from the Circle in the last few years. It was recent, but only one mage escape, and he was barely more than a boy. Most likely, you saw apostates. Many reports indicate their numbers grow during Blights. Tell me, what sort of magic did you see?"
This question is quite specific, and, again, I find myself at a disadvantage as I struggle to decide how much to reveal about a subject I don't fully understand.
"There was lightening," I say, after a moment. "Lightening, and what looked like ropes of energy that cut two men in half. They caused an explosion. An at least one of them had…had some sort of shield around himself. Arrows wouldn't pierce it."
"Nothing you have described sounds particularly advanced. Any mage with even a base understanding of elemental magic could accomplish such spells. If they belonged to a coven of blood mages, for instance, I would have expected something rather more elaborate. Did you notice any deformities on the mages?"
"Deformities?"
"Yes. Anything out of the ordinary – misshapen body parts, discoloration of the skin?"
I shake my head.
"Then they were not abominations, either. So, having ruled out those particular concerns, I suspect that those you encountered were merely apostates, caught up in the fighting." She pauses, considering. "Do you have anything to add, Lieutenant?"
"No, indeed."
"And would you disagree with any of my conclusions thus far?"
Ser Mason sighs. "I rarely do. Although, of course, I can neither confirm nor deny the Senior Enchanter's account of an escape."
"No, of course not," she says, rather tartly. "Now, tell me, Liam: these mages, did they seem to be one side or the other?"
Again, I have to decide how much to reveal. Again, I cannot find an advantage in deceit.
"They seemed to be fighting against Highever," I admit.
"I see." Her brow furrows, and she looks at me intently. "Is there, by any chance, something you're leaving out?"
I nod once, slowly.
"I see," she repeats. Then, after a pause, she asks, "Do you wish to tell me what that is?"
"I don't mean any offense, but –"
"And none is taken," she interrupts. "Now, I hope you won't take any offense, but I'm not in the habit of fumbling around, trying to answer questions that haven't been asked. So, are there any other questions on your mind, young man?"
I start to speak several times before settling on the right words.
"Do…do mages ever serve specific houses? Noble houses, I mean?"
Ser Mason shifts when I say this, cocking his helmet to one side. Wynne, too, seems startled. No doubt they're both inferring a great deal from my question, but neither one presses for more information.
"No," Wynne says. "Kings have, at times, chosen a magical advisor, as many rulers do. But no Teyrn or Arl has been permitted such a privilege since the advent of the Chantry and the Circles. It would be contrary to Andraste's teachings. That does not always stop the powerful, of course, but it is not done in the open – not outside Tevinter, at any rate. Is there anything else?"
I nod, though now I'm straying into matters of mere curiosity.
"You mentioned that apostates are more common during Blights. I've heard that before, but no one's been able to tell me why. Does – does the Blight make more people mages, or does it make people who are already mages more… more likely to become apostates."
I was about to say dangerous, but I have no idea if it would be offensive.
"Apostates are merely mages who do not belong to a Circle," Wynne says, and I'm reminded of the way Brother Aldous used to sound when repeating a lesson. "People choose to be apostates for many reasons. Some fear the Circle, and others deny their innate magical talent. Occassionally, Circle mages flee. And there are mages among the less civilized peoples, as well – the Dalish, the Chasind, or the Avvar, for example. All these are considered Apostates. There are also many people who possess latent magical abilities, which go unnoticed in the course of an ordinary life. But Blights cause turmoil. Apostates are sometimes forced to reveal themselves to society at large, and those who do not even know they possess magic may lash out to protect their families. Abominations are more commonly reported, as well, for the same reasons – a demon's whisper might be much harder to ignore when it offers to protect your family from darkspawn. But, to address the root of your question, no – there is nothing about the Blight itself, so far as I know, that tempts mages. It's possible the Wardens know otherwise, but I doubt it. If they did, the Mages would not be called upon the fight the darkspawn – and yet, we have helped in every past Blight."
"Thank you," I say. "I think I understand."
"It is my pleasure, young man. I wish more people would ask questions of us, instead of simply fearing us, or wondering how they might exploit us. I've always found that the better one understands something, the less frightening it becomes. We must all work together, if we're to defeat the darkspawn, but that's not an idea that everyone seems to grasp. Heaven knows, they don't defeat themselves."
"Have you faced them before, then?"
"Stragglers, yes. My arts cannot always wait until the battle is ended, so I've learned to defend myself. They're fearsome to behold, but not all that difficult to put down." She says it like it's nothing – and maybe for her, it's not. She has more weapons to call on than most women her age – than most people of any age, I suppose.
"I'm glad to hear that," I say, thinking of the genlock corpse.
"Tell me, do you know much about the darkspawn? Do you know of their connection to the Fade, for example?"
"The Fade is where they began, isn't it?"
"Very good. Yes, that's what the Chantry teaches. The darkspawn are linked to the Black City – the placed in the Fade that they say used to be the seat of the Maker. It was called the Golden City then, and it was visible from every corner of the Fade, whether men walked there in dreams or by magic. But when the Magisters of the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the City, it was tainted by their sin. That taint transformed them, twisting them into reflections of their own wicked hearts, and then they were cast back to earth, where they became the first darkspawn." She looks me directly in the eye and smiles, perhaps a bit shrewdly, before adding, "At least, that's what the Chantry teaches."
"The Chant teaches many things," I say, and she nods approvingly.
"I believe much of the Chant is meant to be an allegory. More than a legend, but less than history. We know some of it must be accurate, since records exist from the time before the First Blight, telling of a shining city at the center of the Fade – and any mage can tell you that the city is dark now. As to the rest of it – who knows? The tale, I think, is a way to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering. Just as it is not the Blight itself that brings apostates into conflict with others, or tempts mages to give in to demons – so the Blight itself does not cause evil. Evil is always with us."
This is a bit deeper than I expected the conversation to go, and unlike the earlier discussion, it provides me with no concrete information. Still, Wynne has been helpful. "It's something to ponder, in any case."
"Yes," she says. "Occasionally, it's wise to contemplate one's actions – and their cost. Tell me, Liam, have you lived long enough to realize this?"
A single, bitter laugh escapes before I can bite it back. "I know something of regret, yes."
"I am sorry," she says, and I believe she means it.
"So am I. For now, though, what difference does it make? Regret, I mean. The same enemy waits in the forest, no matter what's in my past."
"If I've learned anything in all my years, it is that there's always a job that needs doing. The past cannot change that, but it can change the way we approach those tasks."
"Then I'm thankful this task is simple. I'll just kill every darkspawn I see. We can sort the rest out later."
She smiles, perhaps a bit sadly. "A wise attitude," she says. "One that has worked well enough for me, when my own wounds were raw. There were no darkspawn then, I'm afraid, but a challenge often helps focus us, until we are ready to heal."
I don't want to tell her that there's no healing what I've lost, so I just nod.
"I want to apologize again," she says, "for thinking so little of you, when I overheard you questioning Aenid. I leapt to judgment, unfairly it seems."
"It's all right," I say. This, at least, I mean sincerely.
"All the same," he says, and reaches out to the table, lifting up one of the smooth stones. The fluorescent green symbols on its surface, two ovals connected by an arched line, glow brightly in her fingers. "What do you know of enchantment?"
I shrug, shake my head.
"Perhaps you could explain, Aenid? Briefly?"
"It would be my pleasure," he says, though his voice betrays none of the pleasure he's claiming. "Enchantment is the practice of folding Lyrium into various items, through the use of runes. This practice was originally discovered by dwarves, but it has been perfected by the Tranquil. Our runes supply much of the income that the Circles require. The irony, I have been told, is that it is our very disconnection from the Fade that allows the Tranquil to work with Lyrium in this manner. A true mage could not do so safely, as raw Lyrium is fatally potent to all but Tranquil and dwarves."
"This is a rune of fortune," Wynne says, gesturing with the stone in her hand. "It is one of the rarest, and Aenid is one of the few Tranquil in Thedas skilled enough to craft its kind."
"Runes can be made to exist which hold the power of the elements," Aenid says. "These are the most common, and even the dwarves craft and sell these. Other runes may increase one's abilities, such as strength, or speed, or intellect, but may only enhance attributes which one already possesses. These are made only by Tranquil. Of course, the more powerful the rune, the more difficult it is to craft, and the more magic it requires, and the more expensive it becomes. True power comes with a price, as we all know." He inclines his head toward the rune of fortune. "This one will grant you luck, if you believe such a thing exists."
"Do you?" I ask, surprised by his description.
"No," Aenid answers. "But I have determined there is evidence in life of fate. I was once told, however, that to argue the difference between good luck and a kind fate is a matter of semantics."
"I told you that, didn't I?" Wynne asks softly.
He nods. "Long ago."
Wynne swallows hard and her face goes slack for a moment. Then she inhales one long breath, straightens her shoulders, and turns back toward me.
"Take this, young man," she says, holding out the rune of fortune. "Consider it an apology for my misjudgment. I – I knew Aenid, before he – before he was made Tranquil. I think he would have wanted you to have it."
"Even as I am now, I want you to have it," Aenid says. Though his manner remains unchanged, seems to me this is the most meaningful statement he's made since we met. It also seems that he's speaking more to Wynne than to me. "If it will assist the Grey Wardens in their mission, I can think of few worthier purposes."
Whatever history there is between Aenid and Wynne, it permeates our every word and gesture. I can sense Wynne's quiet sadness, and when I look at Aenid, I am reminded of an old man searching for a memory he cannot quite recall, or trying to form a word that flirts just at the tip of his tongue.
Only an utter ass would refuse their gift, though I've no idea what to do with this trinket.
I bow slightly, taking the rune in both hands.
As it slips from Wynne's fingers into my palms, the green symbols flare again. I feel a cool sensation washing across my skin. Shivers run up my forearms. There is magic in the rune, as surely as there is magic in the pendant that hangs around my neck, or in the air that crackles around those meditating nearby.
Thank you doesn't seem like acknowledgment enough, but I say it anyway.
"You are welcome," Aenid replies, "but it is not finished. I can use the rune to enchant an item of your choosing. Your sword, perhaps?"
Over the last few hours, wandering the camp, the scabbard's leather strap has settled onto my shoulder, and my body has adapted to the weight. So much so, in fact, that I'd forgotten I'm carrying a sword at all. I actually glance over my shoulder to see the pommel of my family's blade.
Mistaking my gesture for reluctance, Aenid begins to explain that he could enchant a different weapon, if I prefer, or armor, or certain articles of clothing. Before he can explain the merits of each option, however, a shout rings out from across the yard, followed by another.
A man is yelling angrily, and though I cannot make out the words, I can see the source. A slender, red-faced man wearing dark-colored robes is practically chasing Alistair out of the tent that Ser Mason took us to first.
The mages at the center of the encampment remain unperturbed, but every other head has turned to watch the confrontation.
"That's your companion, isn't it?" Wynne asks.
"Yes," I admit. "I'm not sure…"
"And that's Uldred," she says, pointing at the red-faced man. She sounds worried. "He's the other Senior Enchanter in camp. He can be a bit… testy. Perhaps we should walk that way?"
Ser Mason has already started toward the commotion.
"If you are needed elsewhere," Aenid says, unperturbed, "you may of course return at your convenience. Bring the rune, and item of your choosing, and I shall complete the enchantment."
"Thank you," I repeat, and then jog to catch up to Wynne.
We cross the yard, coming closer to the mages in its center than I would have dared on my own. Again, they seem not to notice.
From the corner of my eyes, I notice a few of the Templars have left their posts, drifting toward the Alistair and Uldred. Ser Mason holds one arm straight above his head. The Templars stop their advance, but begin to fan out, forming a perimeter around the argument.
Ser Mason says something to Wynne, too quiet for me to hear. She nods.
Alistair, for his part, is still backpedaling. He's wearing heavier armor than he did on our journey – plate mail over dark leather. He carries a helmet under one arm, and has his other hand up, palm out, a placating gesture that is undermined completely by his ingratiating smirk.
"Has your Order not asked enough already?" Uldred snaps. "Now you insult us in the same breath?"
"Insult you? Me?" Alistair echoes, feigning shock. "I simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, ser mage. She desires your presence, not I."
"Uldred!" Wynne calls out.
We're within a few paces now, but Uldred pays her no attention.
"What Her Reverence desires is of no concern to me! I am busy enough helping you Wardens, and under the King's order, I might add! I'll not be summoned like a schoolboy!"
Alistair has stopped his retreat, and is now nose-to-nose with the enraged senior enchanter.
"Oh, well then, I'm so sorry. Should I have asked her to write a note?"
Uldred spits, barely missing Alistair's boot. "What you should have told her is that I'll not be harassed in this manner. She can bloody well leave us all well-enough alone! You've done nothing but waste my time since –"
"Oh, yes!" Alistair interrupts. "I was harassing you by delivering you a message."
He rolls his eyes theatrically, further infuriating the Senior Enchanter.
"I – you – " Uldred's hands, already clenched into fists, go white at the knuckles.
To my right, the Templars are restless. Every hand is on a sword's hilt now, and all hold their shields at the ready. They're watching Ser Mason, waiting for a signal.
"Uldred!" Wynne snaps, louder.
And this time he blinks, turns to face her. In one quick glance he takes in the semicircle of Templars, and the color drains from his cheeks. Something hateful flashes in his eyes, but he inhales a long breath and straightens. With effort, he relaxes his hands.
"Your glibness does you no credit," he tells Alistair, and turns away.
Ser Mason gestures, and the Templar formation melts, the individual knights returning to their posts.
"And here I thought we were getting along so well," Alistair calls out. Apparently he's not willing to give up the last word. "I was even going to name one of my children after you… The grumpy one, obviously!"
Uldred stiffens, but Wynne touches his shoulder and whispers something. He nods, and continues on to the tent from which he and Alistair emerged. Wynne follows, but pauses at its entrance, turning to look at Alistair and I, now standing side-by-side.
"We will, of course, respond to the Revered Mother's invitation," she says.
Though he didn't blanch before Uldred's rage, Alistair seems to shrink a little as Wynne's reproachful gaze rests on him for a moment longer than is quite polite.
Then she smiles briefly at me. "Take care, Liam of Highever. I wish you luck in the task before you."
With that, before I can answer, she disappears into the tent, following Uldred.
Beside me, Alistair sighs heavily.
"You know," he remarks, "one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."
"Funny," I say, not the least bit amused. "That woman, Wynne? She was saying more or less the same thing. About how some people forget we're all on the same side."
"Hey," Alistair says, making a face, "he started it! But, have it your way, I'll just let him walk all over me next time. We should treat it like a party: we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about, I suppose. What brings you here, anyway?" he asks. "Not another errand for me to run, I hope? No more mages to pester?"
"No."
"Well, that's something, at least. Less being yelled at for me – though the day is still young!"
"Do you have a problem with mages?"
Alistair shakes his head ruefully. "More like they have a problem with me. And since I prefer to avoid situations that might lead to me being turned into a toad at any given minute, I try to steer clear of them."
"So, what, you just make fun of anything you're scared of, and hope that won't piss them off more?"
He chuckles. "Something like that, I'm afraid. I'm not… the best under pressure. I mean, with people. In a fight, I'm fine, but with all that talking business? I'm pretty rubbish."
Behind me, Knight-Lieutenant Mason clears his throat, and we turn to face him. His helmet is off, held under one arm. His face is honest and stern, his eyes troubled."
"Whatever your secrets may be," he tells me, "I respect the Wardens. What the Senior Enchanter told you is true – there was one mage who escaped, about a month past. He was an apprentice, not yet having come to his… to his time of testing. He was not especially talented, I am told. Yet he engaged in an elaborate escape attempt, killed two of my men, then vanished from under the noses of both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander. We suspect blood magic, but, when last I had news, have been completely unable to track him."
"He destroyed his phylactery, then?" Alistair asks.
Mason glances at him in irritation, but nods. "Yes, in fact, he did."
"He must've had help," Alistair says.
"What's a phylactery?" I ask.
"It doesn't matter," says the Knight-Lieutenant firmly, a statement that I think is intended more for Alistair than for me. "And, yes, he had help from within the Circle – two other apprentices. But those parties were caught and held to account. We are more concerned about help he may have had outside the Circle." He sighs. "I've told you more than I should, but nothing you couldn't have guessed, thanks to Wynne. I doubt it is connected to the attack you report, but in times like these… who can tell?"
"Thank you," I say, and mean it.
"Don't mention it," Ser Mason says, dryly. "Now, if you've both concluded your business, you should move on. There's been more excitement than we like at the best of times, and especially while that lot are in their trance." He nods toward the center of the yard, where, as far as I can tell, still not one of the mages has noticed anything amiss.
"Of course," Alistair says. "Sorry about that."
Ser Mason snorts. "You haven't changed a bit, have you? You always did like to prod at them."
"Well, not just the mages," Alistair says, falling into step beside the Templar.
"No, you're right, I suppose. You gave everyone hell, not just the mages. It's a poor quality in a knight, you know. Probably for the best that the Wardens took you when they did. Still, you could always make us laugh."
"Really?" Alistair looks genuinely surprised.
"Of course! We couldn't let on, of course – it would've sent the wrong message – but a number of us were quite fond of you."
"Well, you did a good job covering it up," Alistair says, rather bitterly. "What with the beatings and all, I'd say you hid it quite well, in fact."
Ser Mason shrugs, unconcerned. "You can feel sorry for yourself if you like, but you probably got away with far more than you should have. And now you've moved on, which is just as well. You'd have made a shoddy Templar, I fear, but the Grey seems to suit you. All is as the Maker wills it."
…
Outside the encampment, I make a more detailed report about the battle at Highever. Though Ser Mason overheard most of my conversation with Wynne and Aenid, he asks a few perfunctory questions. This time, I don't try to conceal the role the mages played in the battle – though I still withhold Arl Howe's involvement, and that of the Amaranthine troops.
To my telling, the forces that sacked Highever could be bandits or Wilders, but there is not a whiff of politics to be found. At this point, I'm really not even sure why I hold back. What harm is there in laying bare this truth? What advantage do I gain by keeping this secret?
Whatever the cause of my caution, Ser Mason seems keenly uninterested. He jots a few brief notes, then begins nodding a bit too fast. Before I'm quite finished with my account, he cuts in to assure me he'll make a full report to the relevant authorities. Whatever that means.
This formality accomplished, Ser Mason turns quickly back to Alistair. "What really happened back there?" he asks, gesturing back toward the encampment. "With Uldred? We feared he was about to strike you."
Alistair waves it off. "I'm sure you've heard, but from what I understand, the Revered Mother didn't want to invite the Circle at all. The king insisted, and she doesn't like it one bit."
"I can't say that I blame her. This many mages, this close to so much chaos…" Ser Mason shakes his head and lowers his voice. "If even half of them turned on us, it'd be a massacre. And Uldred…he worries me. He's a Libertarian, you know."
Alistair shrugs uncomfortably. "I acted the ass more than him, now that I think of it."
"How do you mean?"
"Well… if you think about it, best guess is that Her Reverence just wanted to remind someone over here how unwelcome they all are. And she specifically asked Duncan to send me, knowing full well I was a Templar. I'm sure she meant it as an insult, and Uldred picked right up on that, and got a bit snippy, but what was I supposed to do, refuse a request from Her Reverance?"
"I'm sure you were a model of patience," Ser Mason says dryly. "All the same, a Senior Enchanter ought to mind his place. Uldred's been increasingly erratic since… well, it doesn't matter. But you can rest assured, the Knight Commander will hear of his behavior. I'll make a report as soon as we return to Kinloch Hold."
"That's really not necessary."
"Not to you, perhaps," Ser Mason replies, "but I would be neglecting my duty if I did not. Perhaps you have forgotten, but, much like your new Order, the Templars exist to preserve the safety of all."
"Ah, yes, of course. I must have forgotten, somehow."
Though Alistair doesn't actually roll his eyes this time, he might as well.
"We'll be on our way," I interrupt.
I wonder if Alistair plans to antagonize everyone in the entire camp, or just here on the western outcropping.
"Then go in the Maker's light," says the Knight Lieutenant. To his credit, he manages to sound at least half-sincere.
…
…
…
CODEX: The Fraternity of Enchanters
Another aspect of Circle Life is the fraternities. When a mage becomes an enchanter, he may ally himself with one of several organizations called fraternities. These are cliques, essentially, that cross Circle boundaries, into which mages of common interests and goals can bond themselves. The goal, ostensibly, is to ensure that their voice is heard within the College of Magi in Cumberland, though in my experience, such associations are more often of a social nature than a political one. All people, after all, wish to know some as friends, and others as rivals. This is mere sociology.
All questions of legitimacy aside, below I have listed the largest of the fraternities, and the philosophies to which they hew:
There are the Loyalists, who advocate loyalty and obedience to the Chantry; the Aequitarians, who advocate temperance and follow a distinct code of conduct which they believe all mages should hold themselves to; the Libertarians, a growing fraternity, publicly maintaining greater power for the Circles but, I am told, privately advocating for a complete split from the Chantry – quite a dangerous opinion, as you may imagine; the Isolationists, quite a small group, which advocates withdrawing to remove territories to avoid conflicts with the general populace; and lastly, the Lucrosians, another small Fraternity, who maintain that the Circle must do what is profitable first and foremost, prioritizing the accumulation of wealth above all else, and the gaining of political influence a close second.
Among these groups, the Loyalists and the Libertarians are by far the most vocally political. Their voices often drive the debates at the College of Magi, and their arguments are the most heated.
For several centuries, an alliance between the Loyalists and the Aequitarians has prevented the Libertarians from gaining much headway. There are, however, those who believe the Aequitarians may one day throw their support in with the Libertarians. If this happens, many – myself included – believe that a civil war could break out between the Circles, or, worse still, a schism between the Circles and the Chantry itself.
Excerpted from The Circle of Magi: A History
by First Enchanter Josephus